


my carnal flower (pick my petals off)

by niniadepapa



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-16
Updated: 2014-10-16
Packaged: 2018-02-21 09:32:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2463437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/niniadepapa/pseuds/niniadepapa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emma bit back a sigh. Of course this night would end up with a hot hooker hitting her up and trying to make his night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	my carnal flower (pick my petals off)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Yunuen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yunuen/gifts), [ashers_kiss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashers_kiss/gifts).



> blame this one on yunuen. and laura, why not. and some lines to cee.

She didn’t need to go through the ton of texts and missed calls on her phone from the past hour to know that there’d be hell to pay once she came back home. Alas, she wasn’t too apprehensive at the moment.

Enough was enough. 

Not only had she insisted she wasn’t really looking forward to the stupid gala - she’d actually  _begged_  not to go. She’d bitched and moaned and complained that she had work to do and she was  _tired_  and she really didn’t wanna go and couldn’t they just go without her, but her parents had insisted on her being there - the unspoken ‘connections’ and ‘public image’ and ‘press’ that they didn’t really like mentioning (because even if they  _did_  have an impressive check account they were a  _family_  who above the riches and power were together and happy) lingering in the air over their heads as Damocle’s sword. 

Wearing the dress her mother had sent over to her place the night before - paired off with shoes, clutch, and enough fancy nonsense to make her roll her eyes and pray for a quick stomach bug to hit her, - she’d stayed as late as she could, roaming around the ballroom, making polite aka  _boring as fuck_ conversation with whomever recognized her, and sipping from her flute as if there was no tomorrow. She was so unenthusiastic she wasn’t even in the mood for canapés, which was a first.

But it had been the moment when her mother had introduced her to Mr. Gold and his only heir, Neal, to her with a tilt of her head and an 80% knowing and 20% warning look in her eyes that she felt cold dread settling over her shoulders, brushing her skin with chilly fingertips.

Her parents,-  the epitome of true love, a soundtrack for every cheesy flick you’d ever wanted to barf at, a romance novel cover come to life, - were trying to set her up with the wealthiest bachelor in town.

_Nice_.

(Somehow, she wasn’t sure  _that_  fairytale was that charming compared to theirs.)

She sipped from her glass, which she feared wasn’t exactly clean, but whatever. Not that she’d expected Bohemian crystal or anything, seeing that as soon as she got a break from the set up conversation with the Golds, she had slipped her father’s Jaguar keys from his pocket and drove off, silencing her phone as she went and only stopping at the seediest, most hidden bar she could find. She knew they’d look for her everywhere - her place, Ruby’s, Elsa’s, even Will’s, if they managed to find out where the hell he was that night. Therefore, the only plan she could think of on the spot was going for the unknown: blinking sign at the door, dusty floors, sticky counter and just a couple of patrons sitting with hunched shoulders minding their own half-empty glasses.

She sighed loudly. She had just  _known_  this night would be a nightmare, though she hadn’t expected it to be of such epic proportions. 

“I’m guessing you hadn’t intended to end up here tonight.”

She almost knocked her glass down, startled, and she muttered a curse under her breath. She turned to stare at her drinking companion with a frown. “Excuse me?”

The guy in question - who appeared to be pretty into leather, now that they were at it, - waved a hand in front of her with his own glass, and she checked its path across the air warily, just in case he was more than a little wasted and he ruined her dress. “Oscar de la Renta? Not really what birds wear around here.”

She blinked, dazzled - and not only because, well, he  _was_  hot. And had an accent. Her own father had seen more haute couture in his lifetime than most found in a Vogue catalogue, yet he couldn’t discern an Ellie Saab from a Prada, but this guy here instead - no problem.  “How did you…” Shaking her head, she gritted her teeth, chastising herself for even considering being interested in how he had gotten that one right. “Nevermind. I’m sorry, I didn’t know you needed Topshop or Zara credentials to get in here.”

He shrugged lazily, shoulders rising and falling elegantly - and  _how_  he managed to make it look sensual and flowing and  _sinful_  in such a tight leather jacket instead of awkward, she had no idea. “You don’t. It was just an observation.” He gave her an once-over, gaze roaming over her lazily and she felt extremely accomplished for not to letting the shiver coursing through her show. His eyes leaving her for a second, he looked over her bare shoulder, his cocked eyebrow accompanied by a soft and impressed whistle. “Sweet ride, too.” 

_Shit_. 

For a moment her heart stopped, the sudden suspicion that this guy was a cop or some guard sent by her parents jumping out of nowhere and making her consider head-butting him and flee the scene before he could take her back to her family’s penthouse. She considered her options - shucking a Jimmy Choo at him and making a run for it, excusing herself to go to the restroom and hoping there was a window to escape through, flashing him to buy a couple of seconds while she made her exit…  _God_ , - until she noticed the hungry look in his eyes.

He could be someone who had been sent by her parents or even Mr. Gold and be interested in her, of course - she wasn’t an idiot, she  _knew_  she looked good, she  _knew_  the kind of attention she gained from men. But this was different. This guy looked at her as a  _prey_  - and one covered in two thousand dollars gowns, wearing designer stiletto heels and driving sportcars. 

A  _very_  rich prey, indeed.

Emma bit back a sigh.  _Of course_  this night would end up with a hot hooker hitting her up and trying to make his night.

(The traitorous part of her brain that whispered sweet and innocent  _why nots_ echoed in her head, and she gripped her glass harder instinctively.) 

She stared hard and long at the ring on her finger - some gold sparkly thing that Ruby had given her years ago and that she never took off, no matter how many times her mother scrunched up her nose at it. It was working fantastically as an excuse not to give Blue Eyes there the attention that he was seeking - if only for a minute, as she spied him from the corner of her eye put a hand over his chest and bow his head dramatically, taking her silence as a challenge or so it seemed. 

“Oh,” he drawled, lips wrapping around the sound in the most wicked way she had ever seen in her life. The guy was  _good_ , she had to give him that. “Is it because of what I do?”

She smothered a snort. “What  _do_  you do?” she inquired, feigning ignorance and swirling the rest of her drink before chugging it in one go. 

He stared at her appreciatively, leaning in until his lips hovered over her ear, hot breath and rum and heat settling over the sensitive skin there. “Want to find out?”

_Fuck_. 

Rearranging the skirt of her dress with a nervous tug of her hand, she whirled on her stool to glare at him. “Look, pal, no offense - you’re pretty and all but I’m sure I can pick any guy without losing a buck, you know.”

(That was true.)

(That, and the part about him being pretty.)

(Yeah, pretty much everything was true.)

(Wanna know what was also true? That she would like very much to go home with him.) (Not that it was an option, because she couldn’t go home unless she wanted to hear about the gala debacle, but whatever.) (Nor was she considering taking him up on his offer.) (Nope.) (At all.)

As if he could read her thoughts, he grinned cockily, arching a dark eyebrow in defiance. “Never said you couldn’t. I was just offering the goods,” he said, waving his hand over his indecently exposed chest and she couldn’t help but stare at the  _goods_  themselves. 

Not bad indeed.

(She  _really_  shouldn’t have bought that shot earlier before settling on scotch.) 

Blue Eyes leaned on his elbow, licking his bottom lip and never taking his eyes off her. “Tell you what. I’ll get you somewhere your fiancé won’t look for you.”

She rolled her eyes at that, because that hadn’t even come close to being subtle from his part. Not that it mattered to him if she was engaged or married or single, either - as long as he got his cash, she could be a stormtrooper for all he cared. 

(She stashed to a corner of her mind how he seemed to be extremely perceptive and observant - her being prettily dolled-up, obviously escaping from some fancy event, the single ring she had been focused on… it made  _sense_  he had thought she was some freaked-out or upset engaged rich girl. The guy  _was_  good, indeed, even if he hadn’t hit his mark on her quite yet.) 

One way or another, she was kind of entertained by the unexpected banter. “You know that sounds extremely worrying, right? You could be a serial killer.”

“But I’m not,” he stated confidently, openly grinning at her. 

“I can’t know that. You’re a stranger,” she pointed out with a cocked eyebrow, and his whole face lit up, as if he had been waiting for her to say that the entire night. 

“Let’s fix that, then.” He offered her his hand, and she took notice of the rings adorning his fingers going with the charms hanging from his neck. “Hi, I’m Killian Jones.”

She eyed his hand, her lips thinning in a leery smile. “Killian Jones,  _possible_  serial killer.”

He  erupted into laughter, and it was quite the fascinating sound. Coupled with the mischievous grin on his face, she had to bite her lip to stop herself from grinning back like a fool. He had this bad-boy vibe around him, sure, and the strong jawline and perfectly groomed stubble and those  _eyes_. There was a scar on his left cheek that begged either to be asked about or traced lightly with a fingertip (or her tongue) ( _What_?). Not to mention the  _lips_.

Pretty kissable. Heavy makeout-able. Yeah. 

She was  _so_  screwed up, it wasn’t even funny.

He inched closer to her, his entire façade of a smooth predator almost slipping away as he grinned amusedly at her.  _Almost_. “What should I do to disabuse you of that notion?”

“Stop talking like a period drama character for starters.”

He closed his eyes, grimacing lightly and settling his hand over his chest again. “Ouch.”

She barked out a laugh - she hadn’t really intended to be  _that_  mean, but well. She fixed her gaze on him again, considering him slowly. He was attractive, and charming, she guessed, and interested in her - well, in her money, anyway; and even if it kind of hurt her pride to know that he probably only saw the wad of cash she’d leave on the nightstand in case she went with him, it was definitely a change from the prospect of more set up dates by her parents. 

Instead, she mimicked his position, resting her chin on her palm as she studied him intently. 

“Tell me something true.”

She hid her surprise at her own question - she wasn’t really sure what she was asking. It had just slipped out: most guys she was with, only wanted her for her name and standing, or a good romp in the sheets to brag about the next day, “I banged  _the_  Emma Swan” kind of thing. The glamour and glitter that came with her life wasn’t really what she relied on whenever she chose a partner for the night, so maybe this was a test - or maybe she was just messing with this guy.  

As she’d admitted to herself earlier, she really didn’t know. At least he had been upfront about what he did, and  _that_ , she could appreciate.

Their gazes locked, and she inhaled sharply, freezing by the intensity in his, capturing her on the spot. His expression softened all of a sudden, but didn’t try to approach her more than he already was, not recurring to his invading-personal-space tactic to get what he wanted (which she guessed probably worked just fine with the rest of his clients). “You are beautiful.”

Emma fought a quiet gasp. Not because she was touched - she wasn’t, because such a pick up line and an attempt to win her favor by complimenting her looks was just  _lame_  - but because he was being honest.

She didn’t get it.

Before she could tell him that he hadn’t passed her improvised test, his finger tapped her hand, calling for her attention and making her skin tingle in response. “But I guess that’s nothing you didn’t already now. Instead of telling something true about you, I’ll give you truth about me.” He paused, taking in the shocked expression on her face - because really, what was he even going on about? - and cleared his throat. “Killian Jones. My favorite color is red, maybe because my mother knitted me and my brother Liam a red scarf every Christmas and I still have each one of them stashed in my closet.” His voice hadn’t even dropped or broken at that, and she gaped at him, but he went on as if he hadn’t just told her about a pretty personal detail of his childhood. How long had she known this guy for again? “I  _abhor_  being late; I think it’s bad form to keep someone waiting. I’ve always wanted a dog, but I chicken out every time I consider the possibility.” He jerked his chin towards the wall, where she spied a clock hanging over the shelves full with bottles. “I hate clocks - their ticking wear down my nerves, thus the reason why I never wear watches. I’ve been in love just the one time and it didn’t end well. And I can bake,” he added as an afterthought. He smiled again, offering once more his hand. “Nice to meet you, Miss.”

She didn’t know what was more surprising - that he hadn’t lied about one single thing he had said, or that she actually took his hand in hers and shook it, and offered her honesty back.

“Emma. Emma Swan.”

His smile widened, the earlier mischief and smooth predator-like charm back in a second. He kissed her hand, the press of his lips on her skin a touch longer than what could be considered appropriately gentlemanly, but he paid no heed to her cocked eyebrow. “Nothing else to add to that, Emma Swan?”

And maybe it was the fact that a  _hooker_  of all people had given her honesty in what felt like a lifetime, or that his eyes glinted with mischief and sin and wild promises, or that she felt lonely and wanted reckless abandon and, why the fuck not, to piss off her parents if they ever found out that she had paid for a hot night with a complete stranger when they had arranged her future with a rich snob who hadn’t done anything but look down her cleavage and ignored every word she’d said through the night. Maybe it was the warmth that pooled in her belly at his smoldering eyes, or how he seemed to look past her dry words as she’d tried to push him away, even if he only cared about her money and not her (and why should he? They didn’t know each other - even if a part of her was curious about his red scarves and his distaste for clocks and what kind of pastries he baked.) 

Maybe it was because she wanted him, no matter the price. 

She left her glass on the counter, rising from her stool and closing the distance between them, settling herself between his legs. Hands settling over his knees, she leaned in so her lips almost touched his earlobe. “I love cocoa. I don’t smile often. I never stay the night. I actually have a dog named Ava. I have very few friends but they mean the world to me. I hate carrots.” She breathed softly until she could feel his chest trembling against hers, and she smiled. Who was the prey now? “Oh, and I may want to check out the goods.”

Shuffling back so that they were face to face, he smiled appreciatively. “As you wish.”

She let him drive her father’s car. He took her somewhere where, indeed, nobody looked for her. 

Needless to say, they didn’t sleep.

Nor did their lips touch, per silent accord between them. (She  _had_  heard about that, and she wasn’t really fancying the intimacy that came with kissing herself, so it worked perfectly fine for her.) 

(Maybe there weren’t kisses on the mouth, but there were  _definitely_  other quite fun things to do, skin to bite and limbs to hold on to as she rode him, moans barely suppressed when he took her with everything he got and curses growled against sweaty necks.) 

They talked in hushed whispers afterwards instead, sheets tangling around their legs. She touched the scar on his cheek and finally asked about it ( _“A jealous lass struck me with a pen.” “You’re so full of shit.” “I’ll charge you 50% less if you guess what happened.” “You wish.”_ ). She told him about Ruby and Elsa and the night they met Will when he tried to rob their apartment. He told her about his father abandoning him and his brother and how Liam had no clue what he did, being away most of the time as a naval officer. She shared her fear of disappointing her family by not marrying whoever they picked for her. She finally admitted that she wasn’t engaged nor was she in any kind of relationship, enjoying the surprise and glee in his features when he did as he admonished her for ‘besting him’. He traced her cheeks with his fingers softly, joking softly about his predisposition to be her ‘mistress’. She touched his lips with the pad of her finger, tracing them languidly as she would do with her lips, a ghost kiss that was not to happen. He took a pen from the bedside table and drew a mosaic on her back following her freckles, tracing the ink lines with his lips afterwards and peppering her shoulders and neck with open-mouthed kisses. 

He made her laugh.

(And  _that_  was the exact reason why, after putting back on her dress and heels and having a cab waiting for her at the sidewalk, she pressed the wad of bills into his hand and, with a kiss to his forehead, she left.) 

(Months later, she got a text from an unknown number. 

_**I slipped when I was 8 and hit my face with the edge of a table.** _

Somehow, she didn’t need to ask who it was or what he was talking about. She just chuckled to herself, amazed and infinitely amused, wondering how the fuck he had gotten a hold of her number, and with a final shake of her head went to delete it. 

She didn’t, though. _Just in case_ , she lied to herself.)


End file.
